“Age of Juice.:
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I do not consent to anyone telling my story publicly but me.
I do not want to share my story publicly now.
I want to be safe, and left alone, and left to heal.
I need to stop worrying all the time about how every move I make as an individual, fairly young I’m reminded, I need to stop worrying about how my every move will be evaluated in the context of a project I worked on as a young person who very much needed a safe place to rest and heal, and was not given the guidance then of the importance, let alone understanding of, boundaries in how we share our gifts with others.
I am tired. I still worry about these things, but seeing how the community, my chosen community, has grown and thrived and seeded and reseeded itself around me has made me so proud, and grateful. Thank you. You know who you are. Thank you helpers. And thank you especially for the lessons you’ve taught me in how to help oneself. And the value of myself. Not as a character, but as a lady in her bathrobe in the morning, worrying about how she’s going to pay for groceries this week and turning the hose on the pot plant thieves and lecturing them on the disrespect of harming a family neighborhood at ten in the _______ morning, pardon my gall, but dudes, I mean dudes. Those are money. That is food in babies’ mouths (grl, the lemons are out for you next to the sidewalk chalk like I said they would be — good luck with those colds and I hope to have more to offer soon, I’m working on it anyways, you see I am. Don’t worry, I’ve got hoes for days, and I can use the handle for a fence post.) but dudes that is medicine.
Is anybody else seeing this??
Anyways. Here’s some rainbows.
“Denart described young Marguerite as ‘the mistress of nearly all my best clients, gentleman of wealth and position in France, England, America and other countries… It was me that made a sort of lady of her.’”
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So I’ve got this golden view I’ll surely be asked to return any moment now, but if you fox just right down the hill (it’s a cake batter bowl of hills) you can see the blue city over the water.
Prepping poems to bring to the dust (Vacancy@NoSleep) and taking the time to find new favorite versions of old reliable words.
Thank you, Bay Elders, for leaving crumbs for us now-sters on our own (same) blurry hillsides
More weaving, feeling, shedding, peeling. Step back. Document. Report. Iterate. Repeat.
As my hands have been incredulously moving stones up and down my own hillsides, my grandmothers’ dreams have been dancing with the near-future thrill of the Shrine of Sympathetic Resonance. Weaving. New mending. Big art. Almost forgot. Tools for remembering. Almost forgot.
“A FAIRY went a-marketing
She bought a little fish;
She put it in a crystal bowl
Upon a golden dish.
An hour she sat in wonderment
And watched its silver gleam,
And then she gently took it up
And slipped it in a stream…”
“…this blog is about strange and lovely words. Sometimes those are words from other languages that can’t be translated. Sometimes they’re words for feelings we’ve felt but never been able to name. Sometimes they’re just words that sound good.”
“The Community Emergency Response Team (CERT) program educates volunteers about disaster preparedness for the hazards that may impact their area and trains them in basic disaster response skills, such as fire safety, light search and rescue, team organization, and disaster medical operations.”
”Humans generate the pollutants that cause inland aggregations of toxic cyanobacteria blooms, yet we also create new life forms through synthetic biology, genetic engineering, and artificial life. What would the future look like if humans and cyanobacteria merged membranes, genes, and metabolisms?”
“Wong hopes the beauty of one iridescent blue butterfly can remind people of the importance of native habitats.”